Lost World
There's a word on the minister's lip
That is covered in mocha-flecked foam,
And a lie which can flex like a whip,
Though a million miles from its home.
There are three-legged sentences, speeches with mildew,
And a policy wheeze that will spit when it's killed you.
There are sound-bites which breed on their own
As they fall from the minister's drool;
There are nouns without skin, without bone,
And adverbs which swallow the pool:
The language can somersault, holding its breath,
While strangling the clauses and phrases to death.
Nothing quite like it's been heard,
It's like shangri-la frozen and canned,
It's the sound of a three-throated bird
That has swallowed a seven-piece band.
It twitches and itches, it slathers and greases,
And pecks at its paragraphs till they're in pieces.
If you want to find more of this stuff,
It's important to get yourself cracking,
And search for some equally meaningless guff
By sending the government packing.
It's said there are Tories, stranger and eerier,
Who speak for us all from a whistling posterior.
